The Weeping Sky
Version 2.0 of a Dieselpunk Earth story by tshiggins Duchess-Militant Vuvara of the House of Drogan retained her icy demeanor by sheer force of will, as the Venerean house servants gently, reverently, lowered the body of her chief concubine, Doran, into the light-bridge generator, for his final journey. He’d been a good man, kind and gentle with the children, but firm when necessary. He took his household responsibilities seriously, and she’d needed to perform little in the way of psychic surgery to reinforce his loyalty to the house. Most Cytherean men married out of a sense of duty to their home matriarchy, which arranged the match to a suitable house for the purposes of economic and social alliances. Most men sincerely devoted their lives to their children, their wives, and the creation of an orderly household. Oh, a few certainly proved smart and aggressive enough to join the military – and even rose to high rank. But they were rare (and highly-valued) exceptions. However, those rare exceptions notwithstanding, Cytherean men devoted themselves to the nurturing of children and the propagation of the race, for the duration of their short lives. But Doran, it seemed, had genuinely cared for her. His mind had always responded to her touch with the warmth of affection and perhaps even…. No. She would never feel that again; best not to dwell upon what had been lost to the inevitable progression of the Wasting. Damn the cold ruthlessness of the Martians, anyway, for bringing this cursed disease. Damn them to some eternal, frozen, torturous hell, for using Cytherea to test their accursed plagues. The Cythereans weren’t precisely sure which of the three known Martian races had direct responsibility for the contagion, but most assigned blame to the ululating squids. The tripod-mounted race, stymied in their efforts to conquer Terra by that world’s complex biology, had likely turned their attentions to the system's other planet capable of supporting life. If so, they’d learned a lot from the Terran diseases that destroyed their invasion force, nearly 100 years ago. Still, while most likely, some doubt remained as to the identity of those responsible. “Best to just sterilize Mars, entirely, and let their gods judge them,” Vuvara thought. “But first, we must survive, ourselves.” The duchess-militant took the hand of her eldest daughter, Vira, and stepped toward the polished levers at the base of the generator. Vira’s face, with the soft brown eyes she inherited from her father, matched her mother’s icy discipline. Vuvara clicked the safety levers to “stand-by” and watched the dials ratchet up as the capacitors charged. As they neared the red-zone, the older woman slid her lever to the “Ready” position, and glanced at her daughter. Countess Vira’s hand quivered a moment, but then her lever slid sharply down to “Activate” and the body of her father flashed to its component atoms. The… remains rode the bridge of light through the eternal cloud-cover, as the sky began to weep its chilly tears. The light-bridge took the soul of Doran on its long journey to the True Home, where it would be reborn far away from this lost and hidden star system. Perhaps, in its new life, it might even complete the journey to the colony that had been the original destination of the interstellar castaways who had become the progenitors of the Cytherean race, lo these many centuries ago. The mother and daughter moved the controls of the light-bridge back to their “safe” settings. They turned and, followed by the members of the household (some of the men and children uncontrolled enough to betray hints of grief), strode out of the Temple of the Lady of Discipline. The duchess and her heir entered the carriage, together, and the Venerean driver smoothly pulled away from the curb. “That was mostly well done, daughter, but you must have care to maintain your emotional reserve,” Vuvara said. “Yes, mother.” “I will spend the rest of the day at my office. Some of the reports from our monitoring stations have proven somewhat concerning, of late.” “…Yes, mother.” “You have meritorious thoughts that I should consider?” “No, mother. We live for the Bright Future, and not for the Dark Past.” “Excellent.” The carriage entered the drive and passed through the lush, green-gold arches of the latisa trees, before it slid to a smooth stop in front of the Home. The Home that would never again echo with his laughter… No. Focus on the Bright Future. Vira waited a moment for the Venerean footmen to open the carriage door, and she stepped down to the warm flagstones of the portico. Vuvara’s last view was of her daughter standing calmly in the cool rain as thunder grumbled in the distance, while the other family carriages began to arrive. Vuvara turned her attention to business. She drew her armillacom out of her case, spoke the code phrase, and the spherical display lit up. The duchess sorted through the latest reports, and touched the file with the most recent observations of the future Terra. As she read, agitation began to ripple through her calm, to the extent the Venerean driver began to hunch down over the wheel. Vuvara spoke a command, and the privacy screen went up; better for both of them. Vuvara continued to read. The denizens of the future Terra increasingly displayed profoundly disturbing technological proficiency, of the sort no one had expected given the dearth of orbital assets initially observed. Their encryption protocols also mostly remained unbroken, despite the Cytherean’s (apparent...?) technological advantage. There simply wasn’t enough time, even in the 40-hour Venusian day, to sort through the sheer quantity of material. Lately, the future Terrans – led by these “Americans” and their allies, had launched a disturbing number of space-craft and orbital habitats and… Oh, by the Goddess of the Lash! Vuvara’s fingernails flickered, and the screen of the armillacom lit up with the face of the Archduchess Leticia, commander of the Ministerium of Clandestine Excursions. “Ah. Vuvara. I take it you have seen the report of the recent observations of the future-Terra?” “Yes, lady. Radio traffic between future-Terra and local-Terra has doubled, yet again, and the one belligerent, this ‘Third Reich,’ grows increasingly unstable.” “Yes. Our initial estimates that the war, there, would last at least seven of our years, or approximately four of theirs, has recently undergone revision. We suspect the war will now last little more than four of our years, if that.” “Does this affect the timeline of our excursion?” “It does. We must accelerate, before the future-Terrans deploy too many orbital assets, and while they remain distracted by the conflict with this ‘Third Reich.’” “Has the destination changed?” “No. This place in the city of Atlanta, this ‘Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’, remains our primary target. The males, there, remain the most likely to prove useful. Do you plan to come to the rotunda ministerium, today, considering…?” “Yes. I retain my capacity for calm.” “Very well. I will arrange a briefing for you, to go over our updated plans.” “That will be most excellent, lady.” Lightning flashed, quite close. The storm had nearly arrived. Category:Vignettes Category:Fanwork